Cherry Pie
by Bratling
Summary: Pie baking in Colorado Springs... this was a dare by GeneaLady. She made me do it, I swear!


Cherry Pie

by Bratling

Disclaimer: Not mine! I hugged them, squeezed them, called them George and then gave them back like a good girl. _Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman_ belongs to Beth Sullivan, CBS, and A&E.

Author's note: This is all GeneaLady's fault. She made me do it. The requisite words from her double dare are highlighted in bold. This takes place somewhere second season after _Where the Heart Is_. My thanks to my beta reader, Wendy. :)

* * *

_"Can she make a cherry pie,  
Billy Boy, Billy Boy?  
Can she make a cherry pie,  
Charming Billy?  
She can make a cherry pie,  
Quick as a cat can wink an eye,  
She's a young thing  
And cannot leave her mother."_

**-Traditional American Folk Song, first published 1912**

* * *

Grace stood in her open air kitchen, carefully rolling out pie crust. The women were planning a potluck supper to raise money for new hymnals, and she'd volunteered to help. It wasn't so long ago that she hadn't been welcome in the church, and she wanted to do her part to make sure she still would be. She was actually on the list for a dessert and a main dish, but she'd opted to bring a little extra, just in case. After all Dr. Mike had offered to bring a couple pies, and her cooking skills, while improving, were still... lacking. She tried hard, but her bread was leaden and often burned, her biscuits like rocks, her eggs were chewy, and she had yet to make a cake that actually turned out. Colleen did quite a bit of the cooking out of self-defense. Dr. Mike was a gifted doctor and a wonderful mother, but a terrible cook.

Grace sprinkled some flour over the pie crust, then carefully folded it, sprinkled a bit more flour, and folded it again before placing it in the pie plate. Carefully, she unfolded it, molding it to the shape of the pan before trimming off some of the excess dough. She set the pan aside and started to roll out another ball of dough. In some ways, the work was mesmerizing. She'd been making pies every day for almost as long as she could remember. It was the same every time - flour, lard, salt, and water, cut together with a fork. Wait for the right consistency, roll it between her hands into a ball, sprinkle on some flour, and roll out the crust. Put it in the pan, fill it, put on the top crust, crimp the edges, and bake it in the oven.

She had jars of various fruit fillings ready that she'd put up while they were in season. But there were still fresh apples - put in a barrel and sunk in the nearest pond to be stored for winter - they'd pulled them out, still sound as they day they'd been sunk. Mentally, she started to make a list in her head. Six pies - two cherry, two apple, and two berry. The bottom crusts were done, but the tops weren't. She finished rolling the dough, and then went and opened the jars of cherry filling she had waiting. She poured them into the waiting bottoms, and then went back to her top crust, carefully slicing it into strips that she wove together on top of the pie to create a lattice. She repeated it with the second pie, tested the oven, and just as she was about to put them in, arms surrounded her, making her jump. She almost dropped the raw pies, but managed to save them just in time. Warm lips kissed the back of her neck. "That'd better be my husband," she said, a teasing lilt to her voice. "If it ain't, he's a big man - the town blacksmith, and he won't take too kindly to ya makin' time with his wife."

"Oh he is, is he?" Robert E's voice said, his breath warm in her ear.

Grace finished putting the pies in the oven and turned around. "So it is you!" She put her hands on her hips and pretended to pout. "An' here I thought it was John, here to sweep me away."

Robert E released her and folded his arms across his chest. "John? Woman, you'll be the death of me yet! Who's this John?"

Grace moved back to the table, picked up a knife, and started peeling apples. "He was all in my head," she said with a little smile. "Useta dream 'bout meetin' somebody that'd love me an' I could love in return, and I named him 'John'. 'Course, he left when I met you; couldn't stand the competition."

Robert E grinned. "What d'ya say we go home for a spell?" he asked. "I'd like ta make some time with my wife..."

Grace shook her head and peeled another apple. "Got two pies in and four more to finish."

"But you usually don't work right now," Robert E protested.

"These are part of my contribution to the potluck supper," she said as she reached for another apple. She made short work of peeling the apples and started to cut them up. Robert E reached for an apple slice and she smacked his hand. "Don't you do that, Robert E," she said warningly.

"Why not?" he rubbed the injured hand before reaching for another piece of apple.

"Because **I'll bake **_**you**_** into a pie**!" she threatened, using her paring knife to point at him. "Though I bet you'd taste terrible, and all the sugar in the world wouldn't make ya taste sweet!"

"Okay, okay," Robert E held up his hands in surrender. "When ya get done, I'll be home for a while." He leaned in again and gave her a soft kiss.

She was tempted... ohhh how was she tempted! They hadn't been married a year yet and their lives were hectic with both of them owning businesses. But she had promised, and she was determined to keep her word. "Oh, _you_!" she picked up a kitchen towel and flicked it at him.

He caught the end, grinning at her. "See ya at home.: He left, walking towards home.

Grace sighed and turned back to her pies. Cut up the apples, mix 'em with brown sugar and spices, put 'em in the pie, top with a crust, put in a pie vent, and cut slits for air...

* * *

Michaela did her best to ignore Sully as she rolled out the pie crust. While she wasn't a great cook, pies she could do. Martha had taught her to make pies when she was a child as a means of keeping her out of harms way, and it was the only thing she'd known how to make when she'd struck out on her own. But one could not live on pie alone and figuring out how to cook was a learning process. She was sure she'd become at least somewhat competent... eventually. At least her bread wasn't burned on the outside and doughy in the middle anymore. And Pup no longer turned his nose up at her biscuits. Neither did the children, for that matter. And Sully was watching her.

He'd brought some freshly caught fish and cleaned them for her so they could eat them for dinner, and then simply stayed, saying he wanted to spend time with her. They _were_ courting, after all, but he seemed content to watch and it was starting to get on her nerves. She finished rolling out the piecrust, folded it, and then put it in the pie tin. It didn't take long to make it fit in the tin. She turned to the stove and, using a towel, picked up the pan of blackberries she had cooking for filling. She tested the consistency with a wooden spoon and nodded to herself. Just right. She poured it into the crust, put a vent in the center, and then reached for the other ball of dough. Quickly, she rolled that out, too, and then put it on top of the pie, making sure the pie vent came through the center. She trimmed the excess off a bit, then folded the edges under before fluting them. With a butter knife, she carefully cut more vent holes in the shape of vines and leaves, then brushed some egg over the top. With a practiced hand, she sprinkled a little sugar over it and put it in the oven.

Quickly, she started again. Raspberries the children had picked, water and sugar went on the stove to boil. Half a pound of lard, salt, flour, and water in the bowl on the table. Cut them together with a couple of forks. Pat it into a ball and divide it in two. Spread a little more flour on the brown paper from Loren's store, put some more on the rolling pin, and roll out the crust. She glanced up again, to find Sully still watching. "Will you _stop_ that?" she snapped, irritated by the staring.

"Stop what?" he contrived to look innocent.

"Staring!" Michaela abandoned the pie crust and turned to stir the filling. It was simmering, and hadn't yet thickened. She measured out a few soup spoons of cornstarch and stirred them in. She turned, folded the dough and transferred it to a waiting pie plate. Unfolded it and reached for the other half of the dough. Rolled that out and turned to stir the filling again. When the consistency was close to jam, she removed it from the heat and transferred half of the filling to the waiting pie crust. She put the vent in the center, and then repeated what she'd done with the first pie. When it was finished, she set it aside and reached for the ingredients again.

"Can't help it," Sully said. He had a slight smile on his face. "Ya got some flour on your cheek."

She started to get out the ingredients for another crust, but smelled the first pie. Abandoning her bowl, she reached for a couple of towels and used them to protect her hands as she pulled the pie out of the oven then put the next one in. "Well don't." Michaela went back to her bowl, putting in the flour, salt, and water. Before she could add the lard, Sully stood and came over. He picked up the towel and started to wipe the flour off her face, but kissed her instead. The fork she was holding clattered to the table and she turned and wrapped her arms around him, leaving flour handprints on the back of his blue shirt. She broke the kiss and leaned back, smiling crookedly. _"_**If you're not careful, I'll have to bake you in a pie,"** she said.

Sully laughed softly. "**Wouldn't it be a worse punishment to make me eat it?** 'Specially since you forgot ta put the lard in that one."

Michaela turned around and eyed the bowl in dismay. "If you hadn't kissed me..."

"I'll do it again," he offered.

"Not until after the pies are done," she retorted. "I promised one to Brian for actually bringing raspberries home in the pail instead of all in his stomach!" Michaela eyed the gluey mess in the bowl, and with a sigh, picked it up and threw it in the scrap bucket and then started again. Lard first, then flour and salt and finally water. "My cooking's gotten a lot better," she said as she patted the dough into a ball and then divided it. "I already knew how to make pie when I came here-I just had to remember how."

She dusted the paper with a little more flour, and started to roll out the dough. Sully came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. He rested his chin on her shoulder and planted a kiss behind her ear. She considered protesting and squirming away, but she had to finish. Michaela finished rolling out the dough, her movements slightly hampered by Sully. When it was ready, she transferred it to the pie plate and then repeated the process of getting it ready to bake. For a split second, she considered grabbing some flour to stuff down Sully's shirt or going after the glue in the bucket for the same purpose in retribution, but decided against it. After all, he'd done nothing more than wrap his arms around her. Instead, she turned around and hugged him, resting her head against his chest.

"Thank you," he said softly.

She pulled away a little and looked up at him. "For what?"

Sully shrugged. "For bein' you."

Michaela stood up on her tippy toes and kissed him softly. "Thank you," she said.

"For what?" he echoed her from a few bare minutes earlier.

"For being you," she said with a crooked smile. She laid her head against his chest again and they stood together until the smell of the pie brought them back to the present.

Slowly, he released her and grabbed the towels off the table. "I'll get it." He pulled the pie out of the oven and set it next to the other to cool. She picked up the last pie and put it in the oven. Sully pulled out two chairs and set them next to each other before sitting down. Michaela joined him and he took her hand in his. Quietly, they began to talk about everything and nothing, interspersed with soft kisses. And a picture began to form in her head of them, thirty years from now, doing the same thing. The longer they courted, the more sure she became. She hoped he would propose soon, because she could no longer see her life without him in it... And she hoped it was the same for him.

End.

AN: If you forget to add the fat to a pie crust and somehow manage to turn the equivalent of flour paste into dough, anyway, the resulting pie crust is something like dried plaster after having been baked - hard as a rock and impossible to chip through. Trust me. Don't try this at home.


End file.
